


Written in Neon

by lucdarling



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation between two people who are not what they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written in Neon

Natasha is cautious around him. Making noise when she walks, telegraphing her movements, greeting him with tight-lipped smiles and wary eyes. It is not solely for his benefit and it is not a secret that she does these small acts.

She knows what he is, what lurks inside and rears its head at times. She values her life, her body in one piece.

Natasha isn't certain how a genius missed this, how an entire organization dedicated to gathering and disseminating intel has seemingly gone unaware of the truth. 

Maybe they have not and simply desire not to press the issue because for the time being, ignorance is bliss. But that is not - has never been - Natasha's modus operandi and so she thinks of a plan, schemes of scenarios that do not end with her crushed or with her wages docked for reconstruction costs.

It's not the green monster that frightens her. The monster's presence is a neat scapegoat, an opportunity presented, taken advantage of with ease. The lie trips from her tongue like hundreds before. It's the simple fact that Bruce Banner is Bruce Banner, inside and out. The Hulk came from somewhere, he wasn't born of gamma radiation and misplaced rage. It is the mild-mannered scientist that makes her hyper-aware and edge away.

For his part, Bruce seems to understand. He gives her half-smiles and nods his head in greeting during team meetings. He doesn't touch her, though he is civil and cordial when the need for speaking arises. They mostly don't speak; he listens, complaisant and quiet to Tony Stark's rambling outbursts and Natasha remains calm, collected and the stoic SHIELD agent on premises.

She watches him work in his Stark-designed lab, separated by thick glass and the strains of something that might be meditation music. Bruce doesn't look up, intent on whatever is in the plastic jars in front of him. Natasha steels herself and enters the room to confront her fear.

“I wondered when you'd stop by,” Bruce acknowledges her, stripping purple gloves from his hands. He meets her gaze, no more a challenge than a greeting of like recognizing like.

Natasha leans on the counter behind her, close enough to the door for a quick exit if it becomes necessary. She isn't so blunt as to say _you frighten me_ or _why are you still here_ or _I don't trust you_ because none of that needs to be stated outright. Instead, Natasha asks “how do you live with yourself?” in a quiet voice ringed with steel.

This is not her confessional, Bruce is not a man of the cloth and Natasha is not seeking penance. She asks less for herself than to glean some understanding of the creature before her. Know your enemy is not an empty platitude in her line of work.

Bruce chuckles, rich and warm and dark. The sound is at odds with the modernness of the lab they stand in, the science apparatus and who they are. “I could ask you the same,” Bruce responds. He steps forward, stride smooth and almost silent on the tile floor.

Natasha stiffens despite her best intentions and Bruce holds his hands up with another one of those half-smiles that Natasha might loathe.

“Sometimes, as I'm sure you know,” Bruce starts and stops. He polishes his glasses in a practiced move and Natasha doesn't relax. “sometimes there is no other choice.” He closes his eyes as if weary, weighed down by the world and the price of what he is.

“There is always a choice,” Natasha bites out, suddenly angry. There must always be a choice, because if not – what is she doing with her life, what does it matter with her careful tracking and ledger-keeping and body count rising higher despite the promise she made to herself. It is her job to do and she does it well. She is the best.

“No,” Bruce smiles again. It is soft and sad around the edges. “There is only the choice to move forward. Be what you are and be proud, make peace with it.”

“Have you?” Natasha raises an eyebrow, amusement in her voice. The anger has leached away as suddenly as it came. She knows he is talking about her, alluding to whatever it is he thinks he knows of her past; no-one but her knows the truth of it all, that is her secret to keep. She is the best and it is a place, a title she has earned.

Bruce spreads his arms wide and then lowers them to his side. “I get by well enough.” He is a simple man, occasionally taken over by the manifestation of his rage. She is a woman with many names, enough that she can forget herself and her past. They are both products of their upbringing and the choices that have led them here, to this futurist world and the treatise to protect and defend.

Natasha nods and lets the conversation drop. Bruce turns back to his science and she leaves, on silent feet. She will not walk heavily around him any longer, there is no need for that. They have an understanding of the other now, and they will carry on as they have always done, in their own ways.

Sometimes though, as an idle thought when there is peace in Natasha's life, she wonders what Bruce Banner thinks when he looks in the mirror. She covers all of hers and neatly sidesteps the issue. If there is ever a time and place for another conversation, she might ask.

(Bruce would answer after a momentary pause, lift his head to smile in a slow way that most have never seen. "I am my own man, Ms. Romanov," he would reply with innate confidence. "Who I see is no less than who I am." He would not follow up with _who are you_ or _I am sorry_ though his hands might flex like he can telegraph the thoughts. He doesn't need to speak them aloud, because Natasha will read them off his face. She would turn away, excuse herself and peel the sheet from the mirror in her closet in order to learn once again.)

**Author's Note:**

> \+ Loosely inspired by [this](http://jeyradan.tumblr.com/post/33035775715/three-men-sit-in-a-bar-at-a-reserved-table).  
> \+ Effusive thanks to Tigs for looking this over too many times.


End file.
